Betrayal at Iga

by Susan Spann

  Hiro had no doubt the priest had recognized the artist. Other works by Hiro’s father hung in Hanzō’s study and in the room they shared at Midori’s home. The brushwork was, indeed, distinctive, and the Jesuit had an eye for art.

  However, Hiro approved of the decision to conceal that knowledge. Familiarity with Iga would make Toshi and the others question Father Mateo’s honesty.

  Behind them, the floorboards gave a barely audible creak.

  Hiro bowed his head, but did not turn. “Good evening, Hattori-sama.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Hanzō crossed the room without a word. He wore a black kimono of patterned silk over dark pleated trousers. His hair was bound in a samurai knot, his cheeks looked freshly shaven, and his mustache gleamed with oil. His choice of ceremonial dress displayed respect for the emissaries, but the swords thrust through his obi also made a lethal promise: should the need arise, the Iga ryu was prepared to fight.

  When Hanzō reached the wall, he faced the visitors and knelt beneath the image of the flying falcon.

  Father Mateo bowed from a kneeling position, touching his forehead to the floor and holding the obeisance before straightening. Toshi bowed as well, though not as deeply or as long.

  Hiro lowered his face and bent his shoulders in the smallest bow required to avoid a reprimand. Raising his head, he met his cousin’s gaze, daring Hanzō to mention the stingy bow. As usual, Hanzō’s face remained unreadable.

  “Good evening, Hattori-sama.” Father Mateo unknowingly broke the stalemate.

  Hanzō regarded the priest. “Have you learned who murdered Koga Yajiro?”

  “Regrettably, no,” the Jesuit said. “Perhaps by morning—”

  “Most unfortunate.” Hanzō spoke over him. “My captain, Kotani Neko, will join us soon. Perhaps she has discovered the truth instead.”

  “I hope so.” Father Mateo sounded at ease. “It would be . . . unfortunate . . . to blame an innocent person by mistake.”

  “Indeed.” Despite Hanzō’s neutral expression, Hiro heard the warning in his voice.

  “I hope your captain will provide sufficient evidence of her theory,” Father Mateo added. “God protects the innocent, condemning those who make false accusations.”

  Toshi stared at the priest in shock.

  Hiro knew exactly how the young shinobi felt.

  Behind them, the door slid open.

  Kiku entered the room in formal fashion, on her knees. She wore a kimono of patterned silk in shades of gray and blue.

  Hanzō nodded. “Welcome, Koga-san.”

  “Where is Fuyu?” Toshi looked confused.

  “He said he wished to walk alone.” Kiku settled beside the younger man. “Doubtless, he will join us when he’s ready.”

  “May I offer you tea while we wait?” Hanzō asked.

  “Thank you, but . . .” Kiku trailed off.

  Hiro admired her deft refusal, which also managed to avoid offense.

  “We appreciate you granting our request for a meeting on short notice,” Kiku said. “As you know, we have come to take our leave and to hear the Iga ryu’s official statement regarding Yajiro’s death.”

  “Yajiro’s murder,” Toshi corrected.

  Kiku shot the younger man a disapproving glance.

  “Surely you do not intend to leave so prematurely.” Hanzō’s pretended ignorance fooled no one, and wasn’t intended to. “We have not yet begun negotiations for a treaty.”

  “Negotiations began and ended with Yajiro’s assassination,” Kiku said. “Only a fool would grasp the hand that holds a blade.”

  “You accuse me of murder?” Hanzō slid his hand along his thigh until the heel of his palm rested against the hilt of his sword.

  “Do you not lead the Iga ryu?” Kiku’s voice remained polite, a smile frozen on her face. “Is a leader not responsible for everything that happens in his village, and within his home?”

  “You may not have touched the poison,” Toshi said, “but you killed Yajiro all the same.”

  “Dangerous words from a man not old enough to grow a beard.” Hanzō gripped the sword more firmly. “Are you prepared to back them up with steel?”

  Toshi jumped to his feet. “Is that a challenge?”

  Hanzō laughed, loud and long, as if the younger man had told a joke.

  Toshi’s cheeks flushed red. His expression wavered as anxiety took hold, and he looked around as if for support.

  The second his gaze left Hanzō, the Iga leader sprang to his feet, drew Toshi’s own katana from its scabbard, and pressed the blade against the young man’s throat.

  “See the candle challenging a bonfire.” Hanzō’s mirth had vanished. “You will live, but only because I choose to overlook your insult for the cause of peace.”

  He withdrew the sword and stepped away. After a moment long enough to increase the younger man’s humiliation, he spun the sword around and offered the hilt to Toshi.

  The young shinobi watched the blade, but seemed afraid to move.

  “Take it,” Kiku hissed.

  Toshi accepted the katana, returned it to its sheath, and knelt, cheeks the color of pickled plums.

  Hanzō returned to his place at the head of the room. “Need you additional proof of my intentions, Kiku-san? You know as well as I that I had every right to kill him.”

  “Even a tiger may show mercy once his belly’s filled,” she said. “Still, Koga thanks you for your mercy to a foolish child.”

  Who you made no attempt to save, Hiro noted silently.

  Facts and accusations swirled in his thoughts like leaves in a river. Unreliable witnesses and shifting evidence made him question who and what he chose to trust as true. He longed for Kyoto—and almost laughed at the thought’s absurdity.

  Once again, the door at the back of the room slid open.

  Hiro turned, expecting Fuyu. Instead, Midori knelt in the doorway, wearing a cream-colored silk kimono and a dark blue obi striped with silver. Embroidered chrysanthemums spilled across the side of her robe, a waterfall of silver, brown, and orange.

  Chrysanthemums were symbols of the emperor, and autumn, but in pale shades they also stood for death. Midori’s clothing indicated Hanzō had not told her of the change in plan.

  As she bowed, Midori caught Hiro’s eye. The silent exchange lasted only a moment, but Hiro understood her warning: do not intervene.

  Whether he would obey remained in question.

  The moment Midori crossed the threshold, Neko appeared in the doorway and bowed her forehead to the floor.

  In sharp contrast to the other women’s formal attire, Neko wore the familiar blue practice tunic and trousers she had worn all day. A dagger hung at her waist, along with a sword.

  As she followed Midori into the room, Hanzō said, “We are waiting for Koga Fuyu.”

  Neko and Midori knelt directly behind Hiro and Father Mateo. Uncomfortable prickling ran up Hiro’s spine. Custom required lowerranking guests to sit at the back of the room, but Hiro’s mother ranked higher than he did within the Iga ryu, and even Neko was his equal. He struggled against the nearly overwhelming urge to ask them to move forward.

  Kiku stared at the other women, visibly tense. “What are they doing here?”

  “Kotani Neko serves as my personal bodyguard,” Hanzō replied. “I asked her to attend in that capacity. As for my aunt, I will gladly explain her presence after Fuyu-san arrives. I see no reason to explain it twice.”

  “Move them forward,” Kiku said. “I want them sitting where I can see them.”

  When Hanzō did not answer, Kiku reached a hand into her obi. “I said, move them forward now.”

  This time, Hanzō nodded.

  Midori and Neko moved up to kneel beside Father Mateo, and silence fell as the wait resumed. Father Mateo closed his eyes, but not in sleep. The movements of his lips and downward cast of his face suggested prayer.

  Kiku rested her hands in her lap and studied the painted falcons with a patient expression that r
evealed nothing, though her posture indicated readiness, should an attack occur. Toshi alternated between staring at Hanzō and fidgeting with the hem of his kimono. Looking up, he noticed Hiro watching. Color rose in his cheeks, and he folded his hands together to keep them still.

  Hiro, too, remained alert. The longer Fuyu delayed his appearance, the greater the chance his arrival would trigger violence.

  CHAPTER 38

  “Where is Fuyu?” Hanzō’s sudden question made Toshi jump.

  Father Mateo raised his head, eyes open once again.

  Kiku returned the Iga commander’s stare. “Fuyu-san is not my commander, my father, or my husband. His whereabouts are not my obligation.”

  “Perhaps he lost track of the time,” Toshi offered.

  “More likely, he insults us all by forcing us to wait.” Hanzō’s voice revealed his disapproval. “Hiro, find him and escort him here. Take the foreigner with you.”

  “We cannot leave,” Father Mateo murmured in Portuguese. “He will discuss the killing once we’ve gone.”

  “We cannot stop him, even if we stay,” Hiro replied in the Jesuit’s language. “And he won’t blame anyone without the final emissary here.”

  Rising, Hiro switched to Japanese. “Forgive me, Hattori-sama. Father Mateo did not understand your words.”

  “I trust he understands them now.”

  To Hiro’s relief, Father Mateo stood and left the room without an argument.

  “We shouldn’t have left,” the Jesuit repeated as they crossed the yard. “Hattori Hanzō will resolve the murder while we’re gone.”

  “Not without the entire Koga delegation present,” Hiro replied.

  “Do you believe that firmly enough to risk your mother’s life?”

  Hiro clenched his jaw and did not answer.

  At the base of the hill, they started along the road to Midori’s house.

  “Do you think Fuyu’s tardiness is accidental?” Father Mateo asked.

  “Unlikely.”

  The sun had dipped beneath the trees, lighting the clouds with an orange glow. As they walked, the sunset’s fire faded. Twilight washed the world in ever-deeper shades of blue.

  Hiro wished he had thought to bring a lantern. Not for himself—he knew the paths of Iga far too well to lose his way—but Father Mateo could easily stumble if he wandered off the path.

  By the time they reached Midori’s house, he could barely distinguish the pale shapes of Fuyu’s sandals by the door. Hiro crossed the porch, slipped off his shoes, and opened the door. “Koga-san, we have come—”

  He froze on the darkened threshold.

  No fire burned inside the house, and the air contained the faint but unmistakable scent of iron mixed with earth and fecal matter—the smell of a recent, violent death.

  “Get back.” Hiro stepped away from the door and shoved the Jesuit off the porch.

  Father Mateo stumbled backward into the gloom.

  Hiro drew his katana and shouted, “Show yourself at once!”

  He faced the doorway, ready for a fight, but nothing moved inside the darkened room.

  “What happened?” Father Mateo asked. “What did you see?”

  Hiro continued to watch the door. “There’s a body in that house.”

  “A dead one? How do you know?”

  “I smelled it.” Hiro stepped backward off the porch to join the priest.

  “Is it Fuyu-san?” Father Mateo started toward the door. “He might need help!”

  Hiro grabbed the Jesuit’s arm and held him back. “If it is, you cannot help him now.”

  “We must go inside and confirm what happened.” Father Mateo tried to free his arm but failed. The Jesuit gasped. “The body might be Ana!”

  “Ana should be at the guesthouse. . . .” Hiro trailed off.

  “She would have returned to cook our dinner.” Father Mateo cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Ana!”

  “Stop that!” Hiro hissed. “The killer could still be in there.”

  “Ana might be in there.” Father Mateo yanked his arm from Hiro’s grip. “I’m going in.”

  Hiro lowered his voice to a whisper. “Through the kitchen door. The coals in the oven will give us light to see.”

  Father Mateo nodded assent, and they hurried around the house to the kitchen entrance.

  Hiro motioned for the priest to step away, pushed the door open slowly, and peered inside. As he hoped, a fire glowed in the oven, faint but enough to confirm the room was empty. Turning his face to the Jesuit, he whispered, “Ana isn’t here.”

  “She could be in the common room,” Father Mateo countered. “Fuyu could have killed her and escaped into the forest!”

  “Unlikely.” Hiro opened the door, allowing the priest to see inside. “If she was here, she would have started dinner. Given the lack of pots on the stove, and the state of the fire, she’s probably at the guesthouse.”

  “We still need to check the common room.”

  He thought about asking the priest to wait outside, but decided against it. Father Mateo was safer at his side and wouldn’t agree to anything different anyway. “Stay no more than a step behind me. If we get attacked, stay clear, but do not let the attacker get between us.”

  When the Jesuit nodded, Hiro stepped inside.

  They crossed the kitchen to the large brick oven. Hiro fed the fire with kindling from a bucket on the floor until a flickering light spread through the room.

  Father Mateo indicated the paneled door that led to the common room and whispered, “Do you think the killer is still in there?”

  “No.” Hiro retrieved a lantern from a line of hooks beside the door, lit it, and handed it to the priest. “But if there’s a fight, make sure that I can see.”

  The Jesuit held the lantern high as Hiro raised his sword, approached the door, and slid it open.

  CHAPTER 39

  Father Mateo’s lantern sent a shaft of light through the common room, illuminating Fuyu’s body lying by the hearth in a pool of blood.

  Aside from the corpse, the room was empty.

  “Stay close.” Hiro stepped up onto the floor without removing his sandals. After a death, Midori would have to replace the tatami anyway.

  With Father Mateo at his side, he approached the body.

  Fuyu lay facedown, but the amount of blood around him—and the dagger poking upward through his neck—confirmed that he was dead. His body was naked to the waist, with his hands tucked underneath his chin, most likely clutching the dagger’s hilt. His elbows rested close to his sides, as if he had clutched them to his body after delivering the fatal strike.

  “Is he dead?” Father Mateo leaned down toward the body.

  “He isn’t sleeping.” Hiro glanced at the doors that led to Midori’s chamber and the room he shared with the Jesuit. Both were closed. The front door still stood open.

  “Should I light the braziers?” Father Mateo asked. “So we can see?”

  Hiro nodded. “Do not step in the blood.”

  He looked at the dark, still pool encircling the upper half of Fuyu’s body. It soaked the tatami from the corpse’s forehead to his waist, suggesting the dagger in his neck was not his only wound.

  As the braziers came to life, Hiro said, “Stay here,” and quickly checked Midori’s room as well as the one he shared with the priest.

  After finding them empty, he rejoined the Jesuit at the hearth.

  Hiro bent and laid a finger on Fuyu’s neck. “He hasn’t cooled much. He died an hour ago, two hours at most.”

  “He must have committed seppuku right after Kiku left for the meeting with Hanzō,” Father Mateo said. “She knew he killed Yajiro, so he chose death over shame.”

  “Incorrect,” Hiro said. “Fuyu did not kill himself, though someone took great pains to make it look as if he did.”

  “He died from a self-inflicted wound, while kneeling on the floor with his chest stripped bare. What about that says murder instead of seppuku?” Father Mateo walk
ed around the body. “Maybe he left a suicide poem, telling us what happened.”

  “Even if he left one, it won’t help us,” Hiro said. “Jisei contain only last reflections on the writer’s life. They don’t explain the reason for his death. Not as you mean it, anyway. And you will find no poem here. Fuyu did not kill himself.”

  “It certainly looks like suicide to me.”

  “Disembowelment takes time to kill, especially without a kai-shakunin to finish the job with a swift decapitation.”

  “Isn’t that why he stabbed himself in the neck?” Father Mateo looked meaningfully at the bloody blade that pointed toward the ceiling. “To end it quickly?”

  “The pattern of the blood is wrong.” Hiro shook his head. “Had Fuyu stabbed himself in the neck before his heart stopped beating, spurts of blood would have spattered the floor in front of the place where his body fell.

  “There’s nothing on this floor except a pool. No spray, no droplets. He was dead before his neck was punctured.”

  “How is there a pool around his body, then?” the Jesuit asked. “You’ve told me often, dead men do not bleed.”

  “They don’t bleed properly,” Hiro corrected. “Blood no longer flows in the veins after the heart stops beating, but it will run toward the ground, and out through any open wound, for several minutes after death.”

  “Then how did he die?”

  “Disembowelment,” Hiro said, “but staged to look like suicide. I doubt the killer was here when we arrived. He, or she, is probably at Hanzō’s mansion, waiting for us to return with this unfortunate news.”

  “Should we examine the body, in case the killer left a clue?”

  “Not yet.” Hiro raised an arm to prevent the priest from moving closer. “If we touch him, the Koga emissaries will claim we altered the evidence.”

  “Are you certain it’s not suicide?” Father Mateo spoke slowly. “Fuyu was the first one to accuse Hattori Hanzō of Yajiro’s murder, and the only one not here when we discovered the poisoned tea. According to Neko, Kiku caught him rifling through her poisons box this afternoon. He might be the murderer after all. He could have killed himself because he knew Kiku would expose the truth tonight.”